Coral Hull: Poetry: William's Mongrels: Umbrella Tree

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: WILLIAM'S MONGRELS
UMBRELLA TREE

i observed the umbrella shaped tree in the dry scrub
from the kitchen window/ where dad would feed the
butcher birds & hand fattened magpies that waited
in the early morning for pieces of 'killer' from the
big freezer/
                 i sat at the table in the spacious
kitchen haunted by hornets & blowflies & wasps
carrying huge drugged spiders at each dark cupboard
opening/ i drew the shape of the tree in soft lead
& dark brown & olive derwent pencils/
                                                        hiding it from
dad whenever he entered to put the gas on for the
kettle or to sweep out red dust blown back inside
in the afternoon/ or sitting down opposite me at the
small laminex table to roll a smoke or talk about
fishing or 'the big rains a comin'/
                                                the tree wasn't
that far away from the overgrown backyard but i never
went to it/ i only walked as far as the rotating
clothesline where i hung my washing out/ listening
for the low drumming of emus as they stalked the
perimeters of the fence/
                                    my sense of adventure
fading fast in amongst the dry desert scrub in which
the tree stood/ it was not the kind of tree to
welcome me when i reached it/ it did not offer a
river, much birdlife, green grass beneath it or an
autumn shedding of leaves/
                                         there was no place for
me to sit comfortably beneath the lonely tree & the
dogs would not follow me to it/ i somehow wished it
would move closer to the house so i could spray it
with milky brown river water from the hose/ like i
sprayed the dogs/ trevor the psychotic cockatoo or
the stumpy tailed lizard that waited on the cracked
backstep/
               but it stayed where it was & where it had
always been & i remained an indoor girl/ as a child
bending over countless colouring in books with
crayons & textas/ i had turned & asked my nan: am
i an indoor girl or an outdoor girl?/ she searched
for the right answer with kind grey eyes on the
decorative ceiling of boonah avenue/ you're a bit
of both: she said/
                          i was half happy with this but
secretly knew that i was mostly indoors where the
toys were/ where things could be preserved or buried
beneath cushions to be retrieved later/ outdoor
things would change too quickly & crumble away into
rivers or build up in cloud formations to places
out of reach of fingers/
                                  for a long time at twin
rivers i remained indoors buried in books of english
literature/ half anxious of the desert that surrounded
the house/ & the quick & violent nightfall that
brought insects & bats that blacked out the sky so
completely

    

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